I'm feelin' ugly, I'm feelin' low. Mornin' mirror, you ain't no rose.
And did I mean it, or did I lie, or did I dream it?
Oh! Christ, I'm tired.
Why then did ya have to grin? Now the blood rolls down my chin.
Oh, you know you painted so much blue, and I'm much younger than that too.
Oh, mirror, what did I do to you?
You're my voyeur; see every line; chase them to destinations,
On through time.
And you're my diary, yeah, the bitter truth. Unexpurgated, a
mis-spent youth, oh.
Do you have to paint teeth green, when they're snowy, white and clean?
Do you have to make eyes red, when they're clear and fresh, instead?
Oh, mirror, I wish you'd lose your head.
Sometimes, I'm on a gig, and I'm feeling kinda good.
I run and look at you, just like a pop star would,
But you just glare at me with those dark, accusing eyes.
That say: "My make-up's good... I'd like to... I'd like so much to..."
Oh, I'll never look at you again, 'cause I'm really not that vain.
Seven years bad luck ain't that long, before I smash you, hear my song.
Oh, mirror, I'm sorry you were wrong.

Copyright: Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Writer(s): IAN HUNTER